


Bad Blood

by mktellstales



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apprasial, Books, British Government, CIA, Cheating on your spouse, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mentions of War, Mentions of past drug use, Mycroft actually isn't a bad brother, Poetry, Poor confused John, Rimming, Secret Agent, Secrets, Sherlock is not who he says he is, Sherlock likes it hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: Sherlock is tasked with what he assumes will be another mundane assignment; find the suspected mole in his regime and take out anyone he needs to in his path.But then he meets Dr. John Watson, and everything changes.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 60





	1. Author Notes

Okay! A couple of things before we get into this. 

First and foremost, I am obviously not Walt Whitman (I am not TS Elliot either), but his poems do show up quite a bit. So, here is my annotation to give credit where credit is due

Whitman, Walt. Walt Whitman's **Leaves of Grass** : The Second Edition.

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1322/1322-h/1322-h.htm 

Second, I found this tucked away in an old folder my husband accidently transferred from our old, busted laptop to our new desktop. It was complete (and surprisingly good)! This has been published before, but for some reason I took it down years ago. I gave it some edits, and wrote an ending that was actually happy as to compared to where I ended it before. Now, I wrote a damn good ending, but I lost it. I cried, I drank wine, and I cried some more and then I tried to capture at least some of what I did. Let me tell you, I didn't get there.

So, third, I apologize for the end. I know it feels rushed, I know it feels a little 'blah', and I only wish I could have given you what I originally wrote.

But, I do hope that you like it, nonetheless.

Thanks for reading! 


	2. Chapter One

"Are you sure you're up for this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the small piece of lint on the knee of his trousers, and looked at his brother where he stood in front of him, twisting the chain of his silver pocket watch between his fingers.

"Of course I am.” Sherlock scoffed, “Why wouldn't I be up for it?" 

"After how your last assignment ended..."

"And how did it end, Mycroft? Another villain captured? Another body in the ground-“

"It wasn't just any body put into the ground this time, was it?"

Sherlock stilled. He hadn’t given himself the time to think about the latest agent lost.

Mycroft rested the hand that had been stroking his chain across the hand of his younger brother, "I know what Victor meant to you."

Sherlock twitched Mycroft’s hand away and brought his own down to rest in his lap "I'm fine, Mycroft.” He spat, “Just give me my assignment."

"As you wish,” Mycroft sighed. He handed Sherlock three manila folders. "The file on the doctor, the file on your target, and your cover information."

Sherlock flipped through the papers in the folders, and quirked up a smile, "Baker Street? You do think I'm suffering don't you?"

"Your Baker Street persona is the most likely to garner the doctors attention."

"And the fact that I enjoy it the most?"

"Irrelevant."

"Of course. Only business with you Mycroft. Always business."

"Read the files. Be ready on Monday”

“Yes; okay.”

Oh, and Sherlock? Do close your eyes and hold out your hand."

Sherlock looked up from the files. He was confused at his brother’s request, a surprise in its own right, but did as he was told.

He felt the cold curves of glass rest in his palm, and then he heard an explosion and a sensation of pain rushed down the nerves of his fingers. He shouted and opened his eyes to see bits of glass covered in the blood pouring out of him and down onto the floor. 

“It’s only business,” Mycroft said to him

**~X~**

John Watson hated Monday. 

Of course, everyone hated Monday, but John was positive no one hated it more than he did. Monday was the day that everyone who felt ill over the weekend, but not ill enough to make use of urgent care services, filed into the clinic with three day old aches and pains, or worse yet, just the remembrance of a pain that faded away on its own, but they wanted to make sure it was nothing.

Monday was when the kettle took an extra ten minutes to boil, because it was old and unplugged all the weekend. It was when the fridge had an awful smell, because nobody ever cleared out their lunches on Friday afternoon. 

Monday was always a bloody awful day, and John really had no expectation that that particular one would be any different.

There was buzz and then the crackle of the intercom from his desk, followed by the voice of the temp nurse who checked patients in.

“Dr. Watson, your two o’clock appointment is here. Can I send him in a bit early?”

John checked his watch, “Yea, send him back.”

He got up from the chair and opened the door to his exam room. It was only a moment before another one of the nurses knocked once against the frame, and popped her head in. She handed John a file folder, and backed away.

John’s buried his eyes in the folder as he motioned for the patient to come in and set on the exam table. 

He was aware of a tall figure moving about around him, shucking off what sounded like a heavy coat and hanging it on the rack John kept in the corner of the room. He heatd the familiar crinkle of the sanitary paper as the patient seemed to effortlessly lift himself up.

“Right, Mr. Holmes.” John finally said when he closed the file and looked at the man sitting in front of him.

His height, weight, hair color; eye color were all given to him in the papers, but John wasn’t prepared for the inhuman sight of ethereal beauty all those statistics actually were. 

It had been a long time (at least since he had been married) that John was taken aback by a man, but it was impossible not to be by the long and lean body hidden underneath the dark and expensive jacket and trousers and silk blend button down.

John swallowed as his mouth suddenly went dry, “You’ve got a wound you wanted checked?” He squeaked out, hoping he still sounded professional.

"Yes. A small beaker exploded in my hands. I cleaned and bandaged it myself, but I think it’s getting infected.”

John swallowed again; at the smooth, rich voice that came from the other man. “Well, if you could roll up your sleeve, I’ll um - I’ll take a look.”

John watched closely as he took off his jacket and laid it gently behind him on the table. He unbuttoned the small buttons of his cuff with long and nimble fingers, rolled it back to the seam, and pushed it up to his elbow, and held out his hand, palm down. 

John sat on his small rolling stool and pushed himself up even to Mr. Holmes’ hand. He took it in his own; unwrapped the bandage and inspected the red and inflamed cuts spattered along his skin.

“That’s infected,” he said, “I’ll clean it out, rewrap it, and prescribe some antibiotics.”

Mr. Holmes nodded, and John wheeled himself over to a stainless steel cart. He opened a bottom drawer and took out an irrigation tool and some gauze before he rolled back over.

“Do you work in a lab Mr. Holmes?” John asked, pressing the small cup up to his skin and pushing in the plunger for the mixture of water and peroxide to wash over his hand, bringing with it dried blood, specks of dirt and left over cotton. 

“Please, Sherlock is fine, and no. Chemistry is just a hobby of mine. One I guess I’m not that good at yet.”

John laughed, “What is it you do then, Sherlock?”

“I’m a rare books appraiser.”

“Oh! Do you have a shop?”

“No. I prefer to visit with my clients at their home, or they come to mine. I’m far too lazy to upkeep a shop.”

John nodded, “My wife was given a collection of books when a friend of hers died recently. We know there’s some important ones in there, but we don’t really know much about books.”

“I would love to take a look at them for you.”

“That’d be great.”

There were a few moments of silence as John continued to carefully clean the wound, and rubbed a sheen of antibiotic cream into it. As he started to wrap it, he was aware of an intense heat that started at the top of his head, and moved down his neck, and his arms and to the tips of his fingers.

Sherlock was staring at him; not at what he was doing; he had seemed to be rather flippant about the procedure actually, but he was staring right at; no, more like  _ into  _ John.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked.

“Pardon?”

“Did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looked up after Sherlock repeated his question to him. “Uh, Afghanistan...How did-“

“Your face, and your hands are a quite lovely shade of golden brown, but I can see with the shift of your collar and your cuffs that the rest of you is proper English white, so you’ve been abroad enough for parts of your skin to tan under the sun. You were wounded in your left shoulder; quite badly. Though you display no signs of a tremor when at your work, you chose to go into general practice rather than back to surgery, because your hand does occasionally shake; I noticed it when you were holding my file and my hand a little, but the moment you picked up your irrigator, it stopped. You could go back to surgery if you wanted; you’re just afraid to, which is understandable I suppose; a bit stupid though. I’m sure you saved plenty of lives in the middle of a warzone, so you certainly can do it at a well equipped hospital.”

John stared at him, his mouth hung open, “that was- -“

“Rude, condemnable; unbelievable.” Sherlock offered.

“Yes, that last one. It was bloody brilliant, and completely right.”

Sherlock smiled, and it was radiant, like that bright spot of sun that peers through the middle of an otherwise gloomy sky. John shook the feeling of tight heat that pooled inside of him, and clasped Sherlock’s bandages shut. He pulled a pad of paper from his coat and scrawled out a prescription, then handed it to him.

“Just two weeks worth. Make sure to finish it, and come back in if there’s any swelling or leaking or if it doesn’t look any better. You can take the dressing off in three days, and try not to get it wet.”

Sherlock reached out and took the paper from John, accidentally brushing his finger just slightly against his own.

“Yes doctor.” 

Sherlock rolled down his sleeve, and attempted to push the small button back through the hole, but the bandage on his hand made it difficult.

After he watched him struggle, John stood up, and gently batted his hand away, “Let me.” He said, and put the button back in its place.

Thank you.” Sherlock said, looking down at him.

He jumped from the table, and took his coat back from the rack, and slid his arms through. He smiled, and opened the door to leave, but stopped short.

“My address is 221b Baker Street. I have a few hours free in the afternoon; should we say around two?”

John looked at him, confused.

“For the books.” Sherlock reminded him.

“Oh, right; yes. Two would be fine.”

Sherlock smiled, and walked through the door, leaving John flustered and uneasy.

**~X~**

_ I’ve made contact with the doctor. Possibility of contact with the target tomorrow. -Ash _

_ Message me when you‘ve made it. -Lightwood _

Sherlock turned the screen off on his phone and slid it back into the pocket of his jacket. He breathed in the London air as he walked from the clinic to the flat on Baker Street. 

His meeting with Dr. Watson went mostly to plan. He charmed an invitation further into his life, which really, was the only goal of his doctors visit (that and to have the bloody infection he had to let sit for days finally treated before he cut off his own hand simply to stop the itching), but the deductions were a step too far. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to deduce anyone when under the guise of a cover, but he couldn’t help himself. His brain was in a constant state of streaming and filtering data, either spitting it back out to be forgotten or storing it away in a room on a shelf of his Mind Palace, and Dr. Watson left himself perfectly open to read.

He couldn’t help but look at him, and take in every little bit and piece that made him the man he was; he couldn’t help but want to. 

He was a conundrum of a person; a soldier on one hand, and a healer on the other. Sherlock saw flashes of both in his eyes as they flitted from an ice blue to a dulling grey. And was so impressed, even when Sherlock more or less insinuated him to be stupid, with the deductions that spewed out of his mouth. 

No one was ever  _ impressed  _ by Sherlock’s deductions.

Victor had been impressed. As long as they weren’t directed at him, as long as Sherlock kept his mouth shut about the feelings Victor had for him, but wouldn’t say. The same feelings Sherlock had for him, but wouldn’t ever say either.

Silent secrets one of them took to the grave.

Baker Street was finally at Sherlock’s feet. He unlocked the heavy black door, and stepped inside. He shrugged his coat off from his shoulders (making sure to take his second phone and his gloves from the inside pocket), and hung it next to a lapis shawl. He ran his fingers over the cashmere, and thought of the woman it belonged to. Mts. Hudson wouldn’t be in at that time of day - off for her afternoon tea and bridge game with Mrs. Turner next door, and a few other old birds whose names Sherlock never bothered to learn.

He went up the long staircase to his flat and unlocked it. He breathed in the stale dust; recently disturbed by the feather tips of a duster (Mrs. Hudson no doubt after she received a call from Mycroft telling her to make the flat ready.) 

It had been an age since Sherlock set foot inside the old flat, but it felt like home every time he did. There were the old books that lined the shelf and more stacked haphazardly underneath the long, sheer curtains of the window. There was the threadbare rug, the mis-matched chairs, and the skull on the mantle, and oh!

Sherlock lifted the skull from its resting place, and pulled out a small, crinkled white packet. His cigarettes; the ones he left after the last time he was there. He figured the kind of mission that allowed him the domestic comforts of his actual home also allowed him the comfort of a cigarette; any other time Mycroft would be there behind his back, pulling them from his mouth, or Victor making those terrible, big eyes full of disappointment. Even Moriarty, of all people, had once shaken his head at Sherlock for lighting up after they took out a German infiltration ring. 

But there was no one there now to tell Sherlock no.

He pulled one out, and ran it underneath his nose; they were old, but still held the heavy scent of tobacco. He crossed the room to the desk between the windows and opened a drawer to dig around for a lighter. When he found success, he lit it, and watched the paper burn orange and black from over the bridge of his nose. He inhaled slowly, and exhaled just as slowly; the smoke billowed around his head.

The cigarette tucked between his lips, he went into the kitchen; a plate of biscuits were set out on the table, and the box of his chemistry equipment sitting next to them. He made work of unpacking the flasks and the beakers, and carefully setting his microscope down. He probably wouldn’t have time to actually tinker with them, but he likes the comfort they brought, and they were good props if things kept going according to plan.

Baker Street felt like home to him, because it was home. 

Before Sherlock made his mistakes, before Mycroft decided he shouldn’t be left out of his sight, the flat he stood in, and everything inside of it was his. Not because it would fool someone into believing he was who he said he was, but because it  _ was  _ him.

Sherlock’s cigarette burned to its end, and he pressed it down into an ashtray he found in the bottom of the box. He filled the kettle on the counter, and waited for it to boil to make himself some tea, so that he could slip into a dressing gown and settle back into himself.


	3. Chapter Two

John thought the flat was chaotic when he got there the next day, but maybe that was because his head was a little chaotic trying to grasp this attraction to Sherlock who was nothing more than a perfect stranger.

John introduced him to his wife, Mary, and Sherlock offered them tea, and they drank it in the sitting room. When they finished, he brought them through the kitchen, (where John took notice of the chemistry equipment Sherlock mentioned the day before). He brought them up a back staircase into what looked like was meant to be a bedroom, but instead had every wall lined with shelves and shelves of old books; John couldn’t even read the titles of some of them because they were worn away on the spine or because they were in Latin or French, and he only knew a smattering of German and enough Farsi to survive a war. And in the center of the room stood a large table draped in a white cloth with a laptop, a pad of paper, sharpened stubs of what used to be pencils, and a small chest.

Sherlock instructed Mary to set the bag of books she brought on the table, and as she did so, Sherlock opened the chest. He pulled out a pair of thin, wiry glasses, and slipped them on. He then pulled out a pair of perfectly white gloves and slipped those over his hands. 

Mary had laid out the books, and Sherlock studied them much the same way he studied John the day before. He carefully, gently opened the cover of one of the books;  _ In April Once by William Alexander Percy.  _ He studied the title page, ran his finger over the paper, and traced it over a fading signature near the bottom. He turned in a few pages, and scanned the contents. John watched his focus; he could see his eyes darting over the words while he was lost somewhere inside his head. He turned in a few more pages, and scanned the words there as well.

It was a full eight minutes before he finally spoke.

“ _ In April Once''  _ is a collection of poems published by Yale in 1920. This is a first edition; first printing. The leather has been rebound; likely in the 1950’s - 53 or maybe 54 - that does lower its value a bit, however, the binding is in pristine condition, and it has an author’s signature.”

Sherlock took off his gloves and neatly set them on the table. He woke up the laptop on the table to several tabs already open and typed the book title into the search box of several different websites.

“It’s currently retailing for about nine hundred American dollars. A private collector might pay more, but I think retail is the best option if you wanted to sell.” 

“Really?” Mary exclaimed, and squeezed John’s hand.

“Yes, but the one I’m most excited about,” Sherlock slipped the gloves back over his hands, and opened the cover to one of the more thick books in the middle of the line up, “Is this: Whitman’s  _ Leaves of Grass _ ; second edition.”

“Does that make it worth less?” John asked, feeling stupid the minute he did it. 

“Not necessarily. Whitman revised and republished  _ Leaves of Grass _ nearly up until the time of his death. Each version is different from the last. This second edition has twenty poems in it that aren’t the first, and there’s no record of the publisher's name either. Your copy has some light foxing, some pencil notations on the pages; several notations in black ink on a few pages - not sure what sort of idiot would do that - but all in all it’s a beautiful copy. And being that there were only around a thousand of this edition printed, it’s quite scarce. You could easily fetch thirteen hundred pounds for this from a private collector if you wanted to sell.”

“Thirteen hundred pounds? For an old book with someone’s notes in it?”

“Sometimes the quirks of an old book are what make it all the more special. Wherever did you get all of these books?” Sherlock asked.

“A friend of mine had boxes of them in her garage, and for some reason she left them to me; no idea why she thought I would be interested in them.” Mary said.

“Maybe she thought we could use the money they might bring in.” John said, resting his hand gently on Mary’s shoulder.

“Is it just these?” Sherlock asked.

“No. We have more in our garage.”

“I would like to see the rest of them. Not necessarily for appraisal, but out of my own curiosity if that’s alright?”

“Yes.” John said too quickly to Sherlock’s request. He cleared his throat, and tried again, a bit slower, “I mean, that would be fine.”

“Also, if you  _ are  _ interested in selling the Whitman, I would be interested in buying. I have the first, and the third editions already.”

“John and I will think about it. I might like to read it first.” Mary said.

“By all means, do. It’s a wonderful collection of poems. Have you read Whitman before, John?” Sherlock asked, his attention suddenly off from the book, and focused completely on him. 

“I’m sure I’ve glanced at a poem or two in my lifetime.”

Sherlock easily turned the page in the book, and glanced down at the typesetting with a slight nod to himself, as if confirming he had chosen the right place, and then looked back up to John and recited the words below him.

“I will not make poems with reference to parts, but I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with references to ensemble, and I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all days. And I will not make a poem, nor the least part of a poem but has reference to the soul. Because having looked at the objects of the universe, I find there is no one nor any particle of one but has reference to the soul.”

John didn’t know why, but his mouth went dry for the second time in two days in the presence of this man that he didn’t know. It had been terrible enough the day before when Sherlock was his patient, and was digging around in John’s life, uninvited, but not unwelcome. But now, he was unashamedly reading John poetry _ in front of John’s wife _ , and the worst part of it was that John wanted him to keep going. God, he wanted Sherlock to read the whole damn book to him.

But instead, Sherlock closed it, gathered it and the other back into the bag Mary brought them in. He slipped off his gloves and his glasses, and showed the two of them the way back downstairs. He offered another cup of tea, but John declined before Mary’s appreciative smile became a yes. He thanked Sherlock with a shake of his hand; a shake that seemed to linger too long, with fingers that swept up to the untanned portion of John’s wrists.

When outside, John shuffled himself straight into the car and let out a deep, long breath.

“He was very knowledgeable.” Mary said, pulling out of their parking space and onto the road.

“Yes.” John agreed.

“Bit posh though.”

“You would be too if your expertise was in thirteen hundred pound books.”

Mary laughed, “I suppose so.”

John waited for Mary to say something else; she was always chatty in the car, but she didn’t, so John turned to look out the window. He had no idea,  _ no bloody idea _ what was so enticing about Sherlock; well, no, he knew exactly what was so enticing about him; his pale, porcelain skin and the stark contrast of dark curls against it, the chameleon shift of his eyes from green to blue, to almost gold in a matter of seconds, and his lips; perfectly bowed and blushed pink, and sometimes they turned up into the most beautiful smile or sometimes they would part and he would say the most amazing thing. And the way he looked at John made him shiver from his shoulders to his toes. 

But John was a married man, and he was a loyal man. He would never let anyone come between him and Mary, no matter how enigmatic they were.

“Do you think we should sell him the book?” Mary asked, breaking John out of his thoughts. “We don’t really need it, and if we decide to have a baby soon, the money would be useful.”

“If you want, ”John answered.

“I still want to read it first.”

John smiled at her, and reached over to place a hand on her knee, “You do that, love.”

**~X~**

__

__

_ Have made contact with the target. Preliminary data collected. –Ash _

_ Foxglove informs me she is nearly as good an actor as you. Use the doctor rather than her as often as possible. – Lightwood _

_ Which is why I’m on this mission now instead of him; nearly better is not better. –Ash _

_ I will continue to pursue the doctor as best I can –Ash _

**~X~**

John was on the phone with his sister, Harry, three days later at the small coffee shop round the corner from his house when he spotted an unmistakable figure in the queue at the counter.

“Shit.” John proclaimed, quietly into the phone, and shrunk his shoulders down into his body in an attempt to make himself smaller.

“What?” Harry asked on the other end of the conversation.

“That book guy is here.”

“Book guy?”

“Yea, remember I told you Mary and I had some books appraised the other day?”

“Sure.”

“Well, the guy who did it for us is in the queue at the coffee shop.”

“And that’s a problem why?”

Sherlock moved up in the line, he craned his neck to have a look around. John quickly turned himself so that he was looking out the window, and his face wasn’t in sight.

“I-I” John stuttered; there was really nothing he could tell his sister for an answer that wouldn’t get the filthy wheels in her head turning. “It just is.”

“Oh my God, John; you want to shag this bloke, don’t you?”

“What? No, of course I don’t.”

Harry was laughing, “Not as done with cock as you thought, huh?”

“Don’t be so crass, Harry. I have no desire to cheat on my wife. But Sherlock is; well, he’s interesting.”

“Sherlock? Oh shit, does he have a silver spoon hanging from his mouth?”

“No, he does not.”

“Good, then your cock will fit just fine in there.”

“Harry!” John yelled into the phone over her uproarious laughter, forgetting for a moment that he was trying to hide.

“I’m sorry John, it’s just; you know I’ve never thought Mary was right for you. She’s a lovely woman, and I adore her, but-“

“You imagined me settling down with a cock rather than a pussy? Yes, Harry I-” 

John stopped talking and squinted his eyes at the reflection of Sherlock behind him holding a mug in one hand and a plate in the other with a smile that threatened to turn into a laugh.

“Shit-I have to go Harry.” He said quickly into the phone and hung up with her yelling protests into his ear.

John turned, hoping he wasn’t as red as he felt, and faced Sherlock. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.” He said.

“Dr. Watson. Mind if I join you?”

“No-no; go right ahead.”

Sherlock set down his plate and his mug at a small table and pulled out the chair opposite John to sit.

“What are you doing on this side of London?” John asked, sipping at his tea, very grateful Sherlock didn’t ask what he had been talking about on the phone.

“There’s a bookstore I like to frequent. I also like the blueberry scones here.” He picked at the pastry on his plate and popped a small piece into his mouth.

“Oh,” John said.

“So, how long have you and your wife been married?” Sherlock asked, as though it was a question he had been waiting to ask all day.

“Uh, two years,” John answered.

“No children?”

John shook his head.

“And she’s a nurse at St. Bart’s.”

“How could you have possibly figured that one out?”

Sherlock laughed, “The bag she brought the books over in had a receipt from the cafeteria as well as one for a pair of scrubs.”

“So you cheated?” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and picked at his scone again. John really wished he would just shove the whole thing in his mouth so he didn’t have to watch his long fingers touch his lips over and over.

“Did you meet her there?” Sherlock asked.

“Yea. A long time ago actually. We went on a few dates and then she moved away for a while, and I was deployed, and then we found each other again.”

“Romantic,” he said, trying his best not to roll his eyes into the back of his head, “Do you two have family in London?”

“I have my sister, but Mary doesn’t have any family.”

“None?” Sherlock asked.

“She’s a cousin in Edinburgh, but we don’t see him.”

“I see.” Sherlock said.

“And what about you?” John asked, “do you have a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.”

“Oh,” John tried to will away the flush that crept over his ears and down his cheeks, “boyfriend then?”

Sherlock stared at him before he answered, “No. I’m a bit married to my work as it were.”

“Book appraisal?”

“You would be surprised where the acquisition of rare books can take you.” Sherlock said, low and far more sensual than John thought necessary, but he didn’t protest.

“Have you and Mary read more of the Whitman book?” Sherlock asked, his voice back to the natural cool cantor he had been using.

John cleared his throat, “Yea, Almost halfway through it.”

“Good. Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Which poem has been your favorite so far?”

“Umm, to be honest, they all kind of blend together for me.”

“I have perceived that to be with those like is enough. To stop in company with the rest in the evening is enough. To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough.”

John watched Sherlock over the rim of his nearly empty mug as he recited words he must have read at least a hundred times over. He thought maybe Sherlock learned them by reading to a lover, naked and tangled up in each other. John let the image flood his head as Sherlock continued.

“To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask anymore delight, I swim in it as in a sea. There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well. All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.”

“That’s beautiful.” John said to him.

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock concurred, and picked at his scone once again.


	4. Chapter Three

“I’m sorry Mary can’t make it to dinner,” John said as he filled Sherlock’s glass with more wine from the decanter they got as a wedding gift. The only other time they used it was their first anniversary.

Sherlock took the glass with a smile, and swished the crisp white liquid against the glass, “Your company is just fine. Does she stay late often?” he asked.

“Not usually; once a month or so she has to stay pretty late. Every few months she works overnight exclusively, so we don’t see each other much then.”

John set down a plate in front of Sherlock; chicken he had been roasting throughout the day, baby red potatoes coated in parmesan and basil, and a little bit of tarragon. 

“I’m not much of a cook, so if it tastes awful-.” John said, sitting across from Sherlock.

“I’m not either.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of forks hitting against porcelain plates and the sound of chewing and swallowing.

“So, what other poems do you have stored in that head of yours?” John asked to break the silence, “or is it just strictly reserved for Whitman?” 

Sherlock laughed, “There’s much more than Whitman in there.”

“Like what?” John asked, licking his lips.

Sherlock thought for a moment, opened the door in his mind to the room he kept his poetry; it was adjoined to all the data he collected on the art of appraising and selling rare books. He dug around, looking for something impressive when he came across one of the first poems he ever learned just for the sake of wanting to remember the words; remember how they made him feel when he heard them; how they made him think about the day he watched his brother roll out from the hospital room he nearly lived in for months, and be brought somewhere else; somewhere Sherlock didn’t know; somewhere that Sherlock still did not know. Not the brother he had now, though it was Mycroft to be certain, but he was different before whatever it was that happened to him, happened. He used to play in the dirt with Sherlock, carry him around on his shoulders, and he built a pirate ship down by the sea. But after his sickness, he changed. Sherlock changed too.

He took in a sharp breath at the sudden memory, and fumbled his hands around the stem of his wine glass.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John’s voice cut through the foggy images of a childhood that was supposed to be stuffed away in a box rather than on display in his Mind Palace.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He took a drink of the wine. “Do you like T.S Elliot?” he asked.

“I do.”

Sherlock took another drink and cleared his throat,

“We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men. Leaning together; headpiece filled with straw. Our dried voices, when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass or rat’s feet over broken glass in our dry cellar. Shape without form, shade without colour; paralysed force, gesture without motion. Those who have crossed with direct eyes, to death's other kingdom, remember us- if at all- not as lost violent souls, but only as the hollow men, as the stuffed men.”

“Brilliant.” John said.

“There’s much more to it, but the first part has always been my favorite.” Sherlock gulped down the last of his wine, and stood up from the chair to excuse himself, “Loo?” he asked.

“Oh, down the hall on the right side.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock followed the path John laid out for him; down a slate blue hallway full of black and gold frames full of pictures mostly from their wedding; John in dress uniform, and Mary in an ivory gown. He found the door to the bathroom, used the facilities, washed his hands, and splashed cool water over his face.

“Get it together.” He said to himself in the mirror, and then slapped his hand across his cheek. He was here for information, data; to work.

He collected himself and opened the door, passed the photos again and stole a glance into John and Mary’s bedroom. There were two laptops on the bed; one plain and silver and the other wrapped in shiny lilac polyester. 

Sherlock noticed no filing cabinets in their home or in the garage; if Mary kept any information on herself, it had to be in that laptop, but there was no time now to retrieve it. He would have to come back; have to get into that bedroom.

Sherlock returned to the dining room table, now clear of the dishes, but John still sat there, an open book in front of him. Sherlock took his seat back, and John slid the book across the table to him. Sherlock brought his hand out to touch the pages, but rather, they touched John’s fingers; the whole of them, and it caused Sherlock’s eyes to dart up to the eyes of the tawny haired man who only smiled, and slid his own hand away.

“For your collection.” John said, “free of charge.”

Sherlock read a line and realized it was  _ Leaves of Grass _ . “John, this is a very valuable book; I can’t just take it from you.”

“Mary  _ will  _ kill me, but I want you to just have it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t believe in charging my friends for gifts.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. The book was something he had been looking for for a long time, but he would have come across it again eventually, so it wasn’t the gift itself that struck him, but it was the fact that it  _ was  _ a gift. 

And John called him a friend. 

Sherlock didn’t have friends, they weren’t of any use to him.

“Um- well; thank-thank you.” Sherlock said, closing the book and sliding it closer to him.

“You’re welcome.”

**~X~**

Sherlock lied in bed after he got home later than planned from John’s. He wasn’t asleep, but he was only half awake. 

His mind was racing.

Mary Watson was not Mary Watson, nor was she Mary Morstan. She was not English, which meant that, either the network he was after reached farther than even Mycroft imagined, or maybe she was an ex-pat, looking to escape her American ties. 

Sherlock had a list of things he knew Mary wasn’t, but still had no clues as to who she was.

He knew that she loved cats, knew that she was a liar, and that, despite a job where her hands often got dirty, she had weekly manicures, but that wasn’t the kind of information that was going to tell him just exactly who AGRA was, and what she had been up to.

His intention for dinner at the Watson’s was to gather more information. When Mary was a no show he still had John to dig around for more bits and pieces, but he let himself get sidetracked by good wine and good conversation, and good fucking looks. John wanted to hear poetry, and Sherlock was more than willing to recite him every word of literature he ever memorised.

Caring, feeling; sentiment, it was all a disadvantage to Sherlock, a disadvantage to The Work, and Sherlock had a box full of it; nailed shut and wrapped in chains. He had that memory of his brother, the one that somehow managed to wiggle out the box earlier that evening to remind him just why attachment was such a disadvantage.

It didn’t matter that when John’s hand brushed against his, there was a spark that lit his nerves on fire. John was merely a part of the operation; nothing more. 

Even if he could be more, Sherlock was currently in the middle of ruining his life. It was obvious that John found him attractive; his pupils dilated every time they looked at one another, and his breath became more rapid. Sherlock was sure that if he could take his pulse before and during one of their encounters, there would be quite the measurable difference; just as there was a measurable difference in himself. While all of that was true, John was still happily married; he loved his wife, even if she wasn’t who he thought she was.

Sherlock was going to destroy John, because of all the sentiment he let build up over Mary, and that alone was enough for Sherlock to keep his box shut; buried deep in the cellar. He destroyed many lives over the span of his own, he ended a few as well, and he never cared then; he wasn’t about to start caring now.

There was a noise out in the living room; not the curtains rustling against the books from the wind blowing in through the window, but a foot dragging against the rug. Sherlock sat up and opened the drawer to his nightstand. He pulled out his gun; flipped off the safety and got out of the bed. He padded quietly down the hallway, his shoulder to the wall, and then through the kitchen. There was a dim light coming from the living room; one he hadn’t left on. He heard the rummaging of papers, and then a voice.

“Don’t shoot. It’s only me Sherlock.”

Sherlock lowered the rigid stance of his shoulders, but kept the gun firm in his hands, “Christ, Moriarty; what are you doing in my flat in the middle of the night?”

Moriarty laughed, and walked up to Sherlock to push the gun down to face the floor rather than the middle of his chest.

“I did call,” he sing songed, “you didn’t answer.”

“I turned my phone off so I could think.”

“I just wanted to check in on your progress.”

“Since when is that your job?” Sherlock asked, turning the safety back on and setting the gun down on the table.

“I worry about you, Sherlock. I know she’s tricky; so sweet and kind. She doesn’t look like an assassin, and the husband- they make a lovely couple; don’t they? He was deployed when I was working her; shame though; he’s a bit of a dish. But you know that already.”

Sherlock laughed, “Are you insinuating that I’m distracted by the doctor?”

“Are you not?”

“No. It’s just easier to gain his trust rather than hers. She’s already had one dark haired man interested in her life recently; if she is as smart as you and Mycroft claim she is, it’s better I keep my distance from her.”

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, “You are the golden agent, Sherlock. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I do, thank you. Now could you please leave, so I can get back to what I was doing?”

“Awe, Sherlock; that hurts. I break into your flat, you greet me with that enticing image of you in just your pants and a gun in your hands, and you’re just going to throw me out?”

“Yes.”

Moriarty stepped even closer, framed Sherlock’s body with his own, “That’s a bit rude; don’t you think? Even for you.”

Sherlock looked down at Moriarty’s face; at his ridiculously sweet looking brown eyes. James Moriarty was absolutely not sweet. James Moriarty was a fox; cunning, swift- he could take down an enemy or a friend alike with a smile on his face, and no remorse in his bones. Where Sherlock had had to be trained to turn off all his emotions Moriarty was just born that way.

But bloody hell, if he wasn’t sexy.

“I’m working.” Sherlock said, aware that the strength in his voice was starting to falter.

“That’s never stopped you before. Do you remember last September; in Paris?”

Sherlock groaned in frustration; his will broken so easily by that memory; perhaps he was still working on letting go of sentiment.

He lifted his hand to Moriarty, pushed his gray jacket from his shoulders, unbuttoned his vest and slid that off as well. He started to make work of the buttons of his shirt; slowly, and watched as Moriarty watched him.

“We had just gotten back to that disgusting motel,” Sherlock said, “and your shirt was saturated in blood from the Russian whose face you, quite unnecessarily, smashed into the ground. I lifted it up from your body; and there was blood underneath, but it wasn’t his; it was yours; trickling down your chest.”

“And what did you do Sherlock?” Moriarty asked.

“I licked it away.” Sherlock answered, running his tongue over the small patch of scar tissue from a grazing bullet in the center of Moriarty’s chest.

“And then what?” Moriarty asked.

“I believe you begged me to fuck you.”

Moriarty laughed, “I did not; I don’t beg.”

“Are you saying I’m remembering something wrong?”

“I’m saying you’re inflating your ego.”

Sherlock stood up straight, and glossed his lips over Moriarty’s, sucking the bottom one in between his own, “Does it really matter if you begged me or not? I did, nonetheless.”

Sherlock pressed his lips firmly against Moriarty’s; it wasn’t so much a kiss as it was a bruising crush. “But I won’t tonight.” Hewhispered , pulling away.

“Oh, Sherlock; you do disappoint me so.”

“I trust you can let yourself back out.” Sherlock said as he picked his gun back up from the table, and turned his back so that he couldn’t see the reptilian smile slither across Moriarty’s face as he slipped a piece of paper into his jacket pocket.

“Yes, I can. But Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned back around to face him just before stepping foot into the kitchen.

“If she hasn’t figured out who you are yet; she will soon. Finish your job.”

Sherlock nodded, and turned once again. 

“Goodnight James.” He called, before disappearing back into his bedroom.

**~X~**

Mary found him in the shadows; he was always in the shadows. Despite being the kind of man with ambitions fit for the hot spotlights of the world he was a creature that skulked around the dark edges; waiting for something to pounce on.

"You're late." He said, stepping one overly dressed shoe into the small glow of light coming from an exposed lamp above them. The building was broken, and crumbling; meant to be torn down ages ago, but it was forgotten, and left to rot until eventually it would be gone.

"I got held up in a trauma."

"Such a good girl you are; evening out the scales of those you've killed by saving others. Do you think you've evened them yet, Mary?"

"No. I think I have far too much red to wash it all out."

"I think you may be right."

"What did you call me here for, Moriarty; I’d like to go home?"

"I have a present for you." He held out a piece of paper and handed it to her. Mary opened it, and scanned what was there; a few hand scratched notes about her.

"We're being infiltrated my dear,” Moriarty said, fully bathed in the light now, and standing just before her.

"I thought you took care of that."

"I put that bloody cake eater off my scent as long as possible, but he doesn't let things go easily."

"Where did you get this?" Mary asked of the paper.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"The book appraiser?"

"Oh my dear, you and I both know he's so much more than that."

"Yea, I figured. No one is that charming.”

"Then you also know he's been using that husband of yours to get information on you?"

Mary's eyes went wide, "has he told John who I am?"

"No, but he will if he has too. Though the doctor is so besotted with him, I don't think it will come to that."

"John is not besotted."

"He very much is. Don't feel bad; Sherlock is hard to ignore when he doesn’t want you to. And besides, you're going to kill him." He said flatly.

"Now?"

"No. It would be too easy now; we'll wait until it's a little more fun."

"And when will that be?"

"I'll let you know. Now go, scurry home to your husband while he still wants to share your bed."


	5. Chapter Four

“Does Sherlock do anything strange when he’s here?” Mary asked John quite casually over their morning cuppa.

John looked up from his paper at her, “No. We usually just look at the books; he recites passages; we have tea. Why?”

Mary shrugged and took a sip from her mug, “No reason; just, I ran into someone who knows him and they may have alluded to the fact that he’s a bit...odd.”

“Well, we already knew that didn’t we?” John asked, laughing.

“I suppose. Do you-do you ever go to his flat?”

“No; well, once we stopped so he could get his coat after some take-away, but no; we’re usually here. He’s always hoping to get the chance to see you.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. He’s quite intrigued with you actually”

Mary pushed a piece of hair behind her ears, “Why would he be intrigued with me?”

“Maybe he thinks you’re pretty.”

“I doubt that.”

John frowned, “But you are.”

“Yes, I am, but I don’t think he’s the type to think so. And you know that I’m right.”

“What does that mean?” John questioned, setting his paper down fully on the table, and pushing his mug away from where it sat in front of him, as if he was expecting a fight to break out over the table.

“It means you know as well as I do that he’s obviously gay, and if he’s interested in any pretty blonde; it’s you.”

“I don’t think so. Sherlock and I are just friends; acquaintances even. And I’m not-“

“I know, love. I know you’re not. But there was a time when he would have turned your head, yea?”

“A long time ago, maybe.”

Mary smiled, and finished her tea. She left the table, pressed a kiss to John’s head as she went into the bathroom to take a shower.

John sat at the table, skimming the articles in the paper, still lying flat, but not really reading any of them; his mind was still stuck on his conversation with Mary.

Sherlock did not have an interest in him, and even if he did, John did not have an interest in him.

Only.

Only that was all a lie, and John knew it.

**~X~**

Sherlock finished reciting a rather long prose, and John was the one to let out a long held breath. He hadn't even realized that he was holding it the entire time Sherlock was speaking.

They weren’t even supposed to be at Sherlock’s flat. John finished with his patients at three and they met for tea. It was only supposed to be tea, maybe a light, late lunch, but somehow they ended up there.

"Sherlock, you've got to stop reciting me all of this literature."

"I only do it because you ask me to. I enjoy it, of course, but there are a lot of other things I could be telling you as well."

"Like what?"

"Your neighbour is a cat burglar."

John laughed, "He is not. Is he?"

“I’ve noticed as I’ve been at your house that he leaves every day just after two in the afternoon; most lunch breaks are over by that time, and it’s still too early to leave the office, so it’s a perfect time to break into someone’s house and steal a thing or two. He also has a lot of tool chests in his garage; far too many even for someone who fancies himself to be a repair man and a handy mechanic. It’s where he keeps the things he steals’ presumably the things he means to sell, though I’m sure he keeps a thing or two for himself; I would.”

“Shit; should I be worried about my things?”

“Oh no; he’s smart. He does it far from home, plus he likes you and Mary.”

There’s a silence between the two of them. John watched Sherlock leaf through the book in his lap.

"Here; you read me something." Sherlock got up from his chair, and turned the open book toward John with a twist of his wrist. John looked at Sherlock's fingers, splayed over the pages of the book; bits of words peering through the spaces between them. 

His hands and fingers were the only part of the man John had touched; accidentally of course, but then they both knew that it stopped being accidental after the first time. John reached for the book, his shorter, stubbier fingers filled in the spaces left by Sherlock's, and then he slid away immediately.

"I can't do this." John said.

"I know." Sherlock replied, attempting to hide the disappointment in his voice, but failing completely.

John looked up from where he was staring at a piece of lint on the knee of his jeans, "you misunderstand me, Sherlock. I can't  _ resist you _ anymore. I have tried, and tried, but you are so amazing, so unique; so-" he stopped, and hesitantly pressed his hand against Sherlock’s cheek.

It was warm, which John felt strange being surprised at, because of course he was going to be warm; likely more so given the flush that was creeping up from his neck. John rubbed the pad of his thumb across the prominent bone underneath his eye. "Beautiful." John finally finished, and pushed up on his tiptoes, his body pressed into Sherlock's as he did, and kissed him.

It began slowly and questioningly. John was unsure of himself, as Sherlock hadn't said anything, hadn't moved, and was only kissing back in what just seemed like an automatic response to someone putting their lips against his.

But then, Sherlock’s hands gripped at the back of John’s neck, and his fingers pushed up into the hair at the nape of his neck. He held him in a powerful grip that took John by surprise. 

Sherlock lapped his tongue against the seam of John’s lips, and John willingly parted them, giving Sherlock all the opportunity in the world to explore what was on the other side, as John did the same to him. Their lips slipped and slid against one another; messy and hard, and John needed more of Sherlock; he needed everything of him.

John slipped his hands in the small space left between their bodies, and began to unbutton his soft and silken shirt. Sherlock followed suit, releasing his grip on John, and pulling at the buttons of his shirt; both undressed each other, both broke their frantic kisses to steal a look at the flesh they were each revealing, and then crashed their lips back together. Sherlock finished first, and pushed John’s shirt down his shoulders; it hung open, flapping against his body while John finished Sherlock’s shirt, and then they both pulled their arms away, letting the shirts fall to the floor.

They stood away from each other; Sherlock looked at John, John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled; a slow, feral upturn of his lips. He took John’s hand, tugged at him to follow him into the bedroom, and John shuffled along behind him, finding himself rather quickly on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock lied down on his back, and undid his trousers; lifted his hips off the bed and slid them away with his pants.

He was silent, and John didn’t know why. Sherlock seemed to always have something to say; to always want to say something even when he wasn’t, but as John kissed his way down Sherlock’s chest; sucking at each hardened nipple, and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the man, he was quiet. John kissed lower and lower, and felt Sherlock tense underneath him as his mouth trailed closer to his cock.

“Turn over, Sherlock.” John whispered.

Sherlock complied, rolled over onto his stomach, and pulled himself up on his knees, resting his forehead against the soft pillows of his bed. John started with lustful kisses to the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, to the flesh of his arse; leaving little bites along the way. He spread Sherlock apart, took a pause, and teased slightly at Sherlock’s hole with the tip of his tongue; running circles around it, and then flattening his tongue completely against the most sensitive flesh. He repeated the motions over and over again; driving himself mad.

“ _ Oh God _ .” Sherlock finally moaned.

John felt all the bones in his body simultaneously catch on fire and then melt. John groaned inwardly, and pushed his tongue deeper inside of Sherlock, holding still for as long as he could keep himself from needing to breath. Sherlock started writhing underneath him.

“ _ John _ .” Sherlock said; and it wasn’t a beg, it wasn’t a plea; it wasn’t even a question for anything. It was just his name, called out in ecstasy; in affirmation. It was said in the kind of way that John never heard before; not from a past lover, not from his wife; no one said his name the way Sherlock just had.

John smattered kisses along Sherlock’s arse once again, and then straightened himself out, cracking the bones in his back.

“Do you have-?” he started to ask.

Sherlock lifted his head from the bed, and reached a lazy yet intent arm over to the table next to his bed. He opened it, and threw a small bottle and a foil packet back in John’s direction. John opened the packet and slid on the condom; he opened the lube, and squeezed a little onto Sherlock too.

“Sherlock, you feel so amazing;  _ Christ _ .” John breathed out when he had pushed himself inside of Sherlock.

“ _ John _ .” Sherlock said his name again, and this time it  _ was  _ laced with a bit of pleading.

“Tell me what you want.” John said to him..

“Faster;  _ harder _ .”

John listened to Sherlock, and gripped his fingers deep into the other man’s hips, hard enough that he was sure he was going to leave bruises, and pulled Sherlock’s arse back against his cock, roughly, over and over again.

_ “Ahhngggnh”  _ Sherlock yelled out, “Harder _! _ ”

John leaned over Sherlock and gripped at the headboard with one hand for leverage, and wrapped his other around Sherlock’s waist to lift his back flush with John’s chest.

“Harder!” Sherlock yelled yet again, and John wasn’t even sure he could.

“Sherlock, I’m not gonna-I need to.” John dropped his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, the curling fire inside his belly threatening to burn him from the inside out.

“Yes, John; do it.”

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, and saw that he was touching himself; John also realized that Sherlock put his other hand over John’s still gripping the headboard, and that he was pushing down on it, holding it. That was what John needed to thrust one last time into Sherlock before cumming with a strangled shout. It was only a second later that Sherlock came as well; his own cry mingling in the air with John’s.

The two collapsed on each other, starting to quickly stick to each other’s sweat and Sherlock’s cum.

“You are not anything like the literary majors I fucked in uni.” John said as he slowly slipped himself out from Sherlock, and took off the condom. He tied off the end and tossed it in the general direction of the small bin in the room. “But then, you’re not like anyone I know at all.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” John asked, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“No; not at all.”

“You could, maybe join me?” John suggested, a bit sheepishly.

Sherlock looked at John for a moment; studying his face as John watched him doing several times before. He wondered what it was he was looking for there.

“Well, it is my shower, after all; isn’t it?” Sherlock finally said, sliding himself out from the tangle of limbs and sheets they were stuck in, and started toward the bathroom, motioning for John to follow him.


	6. Chapter Five

_ Just finished reviewing the footage from your flat. _

_ The middle of the day; with a married man? -Lightwood _

_ Sex is always the best door into getting what you want. I need access to the laptop. -Ash _

_ You do know you weren’t in his home? -Lightwood _

_ Of course, I know. I need to know his habits after sex; does he shower, does he fall asleep. How much remorse would he immediately feel? Likely, he will feel less guilty if he’s used to being with me somewhere else, before his marital bed. –Ash _

_ So you plan to do this again? -Lightwood _

_ As many times as I need to to finish this -Ash _

_ Oh, honestly... –Lightwood _

_ I don’t mean it like that. It’s a job; and I always finish a job, don’t I? –Ash _

_ Yes, you always do. –Lightwood _

_ Just, be careful. –Lightwood _

__

**~X~**

_ It’s mad, but I can’t stop thinking about you; I don’t want to stop thinking about you. –JW _

_ I’ve been thinking a lot about you as well. –SH _

_ But I shouldn’t be, should I? I should be thinking about my wife. I should be thinking about where to take her for our anniversary in a few months; thinking about her lips and her thighs and her hands, but I’m not; I’m thinking about your mouth wrapped around my fingers, and then my fingers disappearing inside of you... –JW _

_ Like yesterday; when you pushed me against your dining room table? –SH _

_ Just like that. –JW _

_ You are amazing Sherlock, and I know I tell you that all the time, but you are, and I don’t think you even realize it. –JW _

_ I realize how amazing I feel when I’m with you. –SH _

_ This isn’t going to end well for us, is it? –JW _

_ It’s quite unlikely that it will. –SH _

_ But what if it does; what if I left Mary; what if you and I left, and were just...together? Reading poetry to one another for the rest of our lives? JW _

_ It’s a lovely thought John. –SH _

__

**~X~**

_ He got into my laptop. –M _

_ Don’t worry about it. JM _

_ Don’t worry about it?! He uploaded my file; everything about who I am, all the jobs I’ve done; all the jobs I’ve done for you! –M _

_ Oh! And did I mention that he’s routinely been fucking my husband? –M _

_ I told you that he would, and I told you not to worry about your laptop. I’ve got it covered; have I ever let you down before? JM _

_ No –M _

_ And I won’t let you down this time. But Mary, there is one thing. JM _

_ What? –M _

_ He’s going to come for you, and you have to go with him. JM _

_ When? –M _

_ Soon; very soon. JM _

__

**~X~**

_ It’s foxglove; it’s fucking Moriarty! –Ash _

_ I know. –Lightwood _

_ You know! –Ash _

_ I didn’t know, but I suspected; I’ve suspected for a long time, but he’s always eluded me. Mary is the one agent he trusts the most; and I knew that if I was right, she would have the information. –Lightwood _

_ I need to tread lightly around him, and then you’ll make your move; on her. –Lightwood _

_ Her? I’ve got more than enough information on Moriarty. –Ash _

_ But there’s so much more to be had. There’s so much more that she knows. –Lightwood _

__

**~X~**

_ I left you a gift; did you get it? –JW _

_ Yes. It’s a lovely picture. When was it taken? –SH _

_ Harry took it the other day when we were in Surrey. –JW _

_ Which, by the way I missed you terribly while I was away. –JW _

_ I missed you too- could have used this photo while you were gone. –SH _

_ And what would you have done with the photo? –JW _

_ I would rather show you than tell you. –SH _

_ Have to eat dinner with Mary, but then she’s working an overnight. You can come over around nine. –JW _

_ Have to run a few errands first; I’ll be there at ten. –SH _

__

**~X~**

_ He’s been following me. Can’t I just kill him? –M _

_ No. You do not just kill a man like Sherlock Holmes, and I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of doing it. JM _

_ I told you. He'll come for you, and you’ll go willingly, and he’s going to threaten you, and he’s going to hit you, and he may even shoot you... JM _

_ Why doesn’t he just go after you now; what does he still want with me? –M _

_ You’ve killed government officials, in several different countries; you have your own crimes to account for, and they won’t forget that just because of me. They’ll come for me too. He’ll come for me. _

__

**~X~**

_ Foxglove is gone. It’s time to bring in the girl. –Lightwood _

_ Give me just two more days. –Ash _

_ Please? –Ash _

_ You have twenty four hours, or I’m going to do it myself. -Lightwood _


	7. Chapter Six

"It's been over a month, and I feel like this is all I know of you; your surface." John traced a finger from the hollow in Sherlock's throat down to his navel.

"There's nothing more to know about me." Sherlock said.

"Oh come on. Do you have any family, how did you become a book appraiser, how do you do that thing where you look at someone and know everything about them?"

"John, I know you think that you want to know, but trust me; you are much better off staying on my surface."

"Why?"

"Because the things below it are dark and angry."

"I've been to war Sherlock, I wasn't only saving lives, but taking them as well. I know dark and angry."

"No." Sherlock said forcefully, and shifted in the bed so that he was sitting on John's legs; facing him, "you are light and good, and beautiful." He reached out to touch John's face, "and you have to believe me when I tell you that I am not."

"Sherlock" John put his hand over Sherlock's, slid it across his cheek and brought it to his lips where he pressed sweet kisses over Sherlock's knuckles; kisses which Sherlock knew he was unworthy of.

"I'm not as good as you say; married man, sharing a bed with someone else- falling in love with someone else."

"Don't say that."

John lightly laughed, "what, that I'm not good or that I'm falling in love with you?"

"The last bit."

"And why can't I?" He pressed more kisses to Sherlock’s hand.

"You don't want to love me, John."

"You're telling me all these things that I don't want, but maybe it's you that doesn't want them. Maybe it's you who is afraid of what's underneath your surface; you, who doesn't want me to be in love with you."

"You're right!” Sherlock yelled. “I am afraid, and I don't want you to love me John; I don't!" Sherlock got up from John, searched the floor for his shirt and trousers, and hastily dressed himself, "I have to go." He said.

John sat up in the bed, and tried to reach out for him. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I freaked you out. Let's talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about. This was a mistake right from the beginning. I should have left you alone."

"Sherlock, please."

"No. No! Don't ask me to stay, because I can't-because you wouldn't want me to if you knew who I really am."

"Just who are you then, Sherlock?! What terrible things have you done that you think I won't forgive you for?”

Sherlock stood at the door of the bedroom. He leaned against the frame, his shoulders slumped as if he had been defeated. He didn’t turn to face John, and he spoke softly when he answered.

"Everything, John. Everything I have ever done is unforgivable."

“Even me?” John asked.

“Especially you.”

**~X~**

Sherlock was barely home before he had to go again. Mycroft had been sending him a countdown since he got to John’s earlier in the evening. Mary was working a late shift at the hospital, and she was now on her way back to her home with John. Sherlock knew, because he sat in the parking lot of the hospital, and watched the door until she left.

He wanted to just take her then; drag her into the alleyway where trucks brought deliveries all day, and squeeze his hands around her neck until she stopped breathing; leave her somewhere to be found; or leave her to Mycroft to make sure that she was never found. An unexplainable death would have to be better than what he was about to do; John losing his wife at the hands of a sociopath had to be better than him finding out the truth about the both of them.

Sherlock changed; black trousers, black t-shirt that covered his arms, but had more give than his usual button downs. He slid on his coat, put his gun in the inside pocket, and his switch knife in the outside.

He smoked three cigarettes on the way back to the home he just left. There was a soft glow coming from inside the small windows. John was probably sipping tea with her at the dining room table; maybe on the couch. He might have been quietly pouting, and Mary could have her arm around him coaxing him to open up while comforting him from his unexplained sadness.

Sherlock put out his last cigarette, and knocked on the door.

“Sherlock?” John asked upon opening the door in his pyjamas, “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock fumbled around unformed words in his throat. There wasn’t anything he could think to say to him. 

“It’s difficult to lie to him, isn’t it?” Mary’s voice came from behind John, in the shadows. “His face is so sweet, and then you remember that he’s a doctor; a soldier. He’s such a bloody honest, noble man. Makes you feel a bit like pond scum doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Is that why you love him; he keeps this domestic lie you’ve been living in perspective for you; so that you don’t forget what you’ve done?”

“Is that why  _ you  _ love him?”

Sherlock stumbled over his word again. He shifted his eyes to the corner where he could just make out John, still standing with his hand against the door; confused.

“Because you  _ do  _ love him, Sherlock.” Mary said, “if you’re going to break his heart, at least don’t lie to him about that.”

Mary moved out from the shadows finally, closer to where Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, to where John was still standing; watching whatever it was that was happening in front of him as if it was all a terribly surreal dream.

“You’re his wife. I think he’s going to be more heartbroken finding out the truth about you. What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out that the only reason he’s alive is because you do James Moriarty’s dirty work. You thought that John was going to be your salvation; he was going to be your ticket out of all the death and destruction you brought upon the world. But your marriage to him has kept you in the game you wanted to leave. I know him though, so I understand why you didn’t want to cross him.”

“I didn’t do it, because I was afraid of Moriarty; I did it because I love John.”

“Right, right; what’s a little murder if you get to keep him, yea? You’d been doing it for so long; probably would have had a hell of a time kicking the habit; and trust me, I know a bit about kicking a bad habit.”

Mary smiled, “Yes, Heroin, was it? You nearly got your brother killed on a mission because you were high.”

Sherlock’s hand, for the first time, twitched and reached inside his coat where he had his gun stowed away. Mary smiled, and slinked even closer.

“I don’t know where Moriarty is.” Mary said. “I didn’t even know he had gone until this morning.”

“I don’t believe you. For whatever reason, you and Moriarty are close. Which amazes me, because he isn’t close to anybody.”

“He was awfully close to you.”

Sherlock reached into his coat, and pulled out the sleek black and silver gun; pointed it straight at Mary’s chest; Mary responded in kind, by pulling out her own from the waistband of her yoga pants, and pointing hers at Sherlock’s chest.

“Okay-“ John finally said, the surreal moment suddenly becoming very real, “Could someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

“Your wife is a freelance assassin formerly of the CIA. I say freelance, but in fact her entire life and soul; yours as well, is owned by one man.” Sherlock said.

“And your sweet little shag here is part of the British Secret Service; well, that’s what they claim to be, but your little network doesn’t exactly play by the rules does it?”

“Wait-Mary, you-you kill people?”

“Yes, John, but it's complicated.”

“And Sherlock, you were using me; to get to her?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God. I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Tell me where Moriarty is, Mary, and I swear; I’ll let you go.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will. Don’t you see that if you tell me where he is, then we will find him, and you’ll be free; you can be with John; both of you will be free.”

“Don’t  _ you _ see, Sherlock; that it isn’t about that anymore? I  _ like _ what I do- don’t you like what you do?”

“I don’t get paid to kill people.”

“Yes you do; but because you kill people like me, you think you’re better; you think it’s okay.”

“Tell me where he is, or I will shoot you.”

“No, you won’t.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and fired; the sound was unbearably loud in the small space of their living room. The bullet slipped past Mary’s shoulder, and dug itself into the back of hers and John’s sofa.

John jumped at the sound. Mary didn’t even blink her eyes.

“Do you want to try another answer; I’m getting a bit tired of that one.” Sherlock asked, still holding his gun steady, and aimed at her.

Mary laughed, “Why do you think I even know; how do you not know? James told me that your brother knows everything. This isn’t about finding Moriarty; you  _ will _ find him. You want me to come with you so I can answer for my crimes.”

“Don’t you think that you should?”

“Don’t you think that  _ you _ should?”

It was an instant; it always only took an instant for a bullet to sail through the air, dig through layers of clothing and pierce the skin and muscle. And then another instant for the body to panic itself into shock ; blood to start pumping faster and harder in an effort to overcompensate for what was being lost at the point of entry, a cold sweat breaking out trying to secrete toxins that didn’t even exist, and then, when the brain catches up to what the body has already known, the pain starts to set in.

It felt like a fire bomb exploded in his chest; heat and shrapnel radiated from the point of contact to the very tips of his fingers and his toes; blind, searing pain. Sherlock fell first to his knees, and then bent backwards, falling to the floor; finally cursing at the pain, and maybe at the woman who caused it, when he crumpled up into his coat.

**~X~**

Sherlock woke up in hospital. 

He hated waking up in hospital. It always smelled so sterile, and the beds were always too small, and hard, and all the plastic lines hooked up to his arm or to his chest or his nose were bothersome. The first thing he did upon opening his eyes was to bat at them, and then look over at the machine to control his pain medication.

“Morphine, Mycroft; you shouldn’t have.” Sherlock said. Even though he hadn’t seen Mycroft, he knew that he was there, standing in a corner; watching.

“I thought being shot close range in the chest garnered a bit more than your opiate free pain killers. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock fiddled with the knob on the machine, turning it all the way up.

“Like I’ve been shot in the chest.”

“Well, rest easy and heal dear brother; we have her now.”

“And what of Moriarty; do we know where he is?”

“I have an idea. When you’re better of course, I’ll send you after him.”

“Of course.” Sherlock said.

He hesitated a bit, ran a tube between the pads of his thumb and index finger, “And John?”

“We have him as well.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“I know that, but he does make nice leverage. If she was willing to kill to keep him alive, she should be more than willing to talk to do the same thing.”

Sherlock turned his head to his brother.

“We’re not actually going to kill him. Or hurt him. Relax.”

“I want to see him.” Sherlock said, lifting his blanket off from his legs.

“No.”

“Yes. Take me to see him, Mycroft, or I’ll just break out and do it myself.”

Mycroft sighed and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had done it before. His detest of hospitals, and the fact that he couldn’t even get real pain medication due to Mycroft’s paranoid fear it would bring Sherlock back to using, made Sherlock’s hospital stays rather short.

“Fine. I will take you to see him, but then you’re coming right back here.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t know what you expect to gain from an interaction with him.” Mycroft said, as he helped Sherlock out of the bed and into a wheelchair that had been tucked away in a cupboard.

Sherlock shifted into the chair, “I just need to see him.” He said, “And also, if I could change first.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and grabbed Sherlock’s trousers and coat from one of the visitation chairs. He threw them down into Sherlock’s lap, and wheeled his brother out of the hospital.

**~X~**

John peeled the paper off the cup he was drinking his tea from. He pulled it off in thin strips and laid them all next to each other on the table. There was the jingling sound of keys on the other side of the room; a click, and then the door opened.

It was Sherlock; leaning against the door frame, breathing heavily.

"You were just shot in the bloody chest, what are you doing here?"

"I thought we could chat." Sherlock said with a hint of humour behind his voice.

John laughed, despite himself. He was tired, and hungry, and cold and his arse hurt from the God awful chair he had been sitting in. And no one would tell him anything. He stopped asking hours ago.

His wife was somewhere else, in a room likely similar to the one he was in. Or maybe not. Maybe she was in a cell; maybe she was bound to her chair; maybe she wasn’t even alive anymore. John didn’t know; wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

He went numb long ago; somewhere around the time he heard the word CIA, and saw a pair of guns pointed at the people he loved. He remembered when Sherlock’s gun went off, and in a split second every memory he ever held of him and Mary flashed through his mind, like he was the one getting shot. And he remembered when Mary’s gun fired, and he watched Sherlock stumble backwards; watched Mary’s face stay cold and calm. She had put her gun back into her waistband, and sat; waiting.

John didn’t know at first what she was waiting for, but then there was a shuffle of feet up their stairs, and several Military like men lifted Sherlock up off the floor; another two pulled Mary from the couch, and a looming figure in a three piece suit, and an umbrella in one hand, took John by the shoulder and led him into a black car, where he didn’t answer any of John’s questions, and then led him out of the black car and into this room.

"My wife shot you." John offered as a topic of conversation.

"Yes she did." Sherlock said, walking further into the room, and pulling out the other chair at the table, but away from the table so that he wasn't near to John.

“Only, she isn’t exactly my wife, is she?”

“Of course she is. She’s just also someone else.”

“Do you know; how many people she’s...killed?”

“I do, but I’m not going to tell you. You don’t need to know.”

John let out a huff of breath through his nose, “I don’t, do I?”

“Will it change anything? Will it make you less angry if it’s not a very high number, or angrier, if it is? You’re not going to see Mary again; remember her as the woman that you loved, not as the woman she hid away from you.”

“I don’t deserve the truth then; about either of you?”

Sherlock sighed. John wasn’t sure if it was from annoyance or from the pain he was obviously in, as Sherlock shifted and buried a hand into his pocket.

As he sat there, he didn’t seem any different than the man he had been spending time with; he was calm, and he was collected, and he was wearing his great Belstaf, and a pair of expensive trousers. John could tell that he was trying to ignore the pain that had to be coursing through him.

Suddenly, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it earlier, John understood the agitation Sherlock displayed the last time they saw each other; just hours before Sherlock came back, and turned his entire life upside down.

“If you want to know about Mary; you’ll find everything on here.” Sherlock leaned over toward John, holding a small flash drive in his hands. John met him halfway, and plucked it from his fingers.

John looked at it; ran his fingers across the smooth, new plastic and pushed it down into his pocket.

“What about you?” John asked. “You’re a spy?”

"Not exactly." Sherlock answered.

"But you're not a book appraiser."

"Sometimes I am. When I need to be."

"Is Sherlock even your real name?"

"Yes. Lying isn't about making up stories; it's just shifting who you really are to fit who it is you need to be. My name  _ is _ Sherlock- William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I do know everything about books; I know everything about everything. I do practice chemistry, and Baker Street was at one time my home. That was my tea we drank, my sofa we sat on, my bed we fucked in..."

John winced at the reminder of their romance. Images and memories he had been holding onto of their bodies soaked in sweat and entwined together flooded his head, and it made him want to reach out to Sherlock, cup his chin between his fingers, and just kiss him, but then he remembered where he was; remembered that the man in those memories was not the same man sitting in front of him.

"Sherlock- no matter how much of that was you- you were still lying to me."

"I had to!" Sherlock shouted, and grabbed at his chest.

"You had to use me? Had to sleep with me to get information on my wife?! Why not seduce  _ her _ , why not lie to  _ her _ ?"

"Someone else already tried that. And I didn't lie to you! I just wasn't completely honest."

“That's lying! This isn't the first time you've done this is it?” John asked

“No.”

“How many other people have you charmed into bed with you; how many other people have you made trust you; made to fall in love with you?”

John was angry; he was so angry. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry; wanted to flip over the table just to feel something be in his control.

"More than I care to share, but John-“

“No. No. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sherlock grabbed at his chest again. If possible, he was paler and covered in even more sweat than when he had first walked in there. John watched Sherlock try to keep himself upright in the chair; watched his teeth clench and listened to the sharp intake of breath Sherlock sucked in through them. He didn’t yell out, but he looked very much like he wanted to.

John sighed, and got up from the chair, and walked over to him. He of course was still a doctor. With a tremor in his hand, he pushed Sherlock's coat to the side to reveal a plain white t-shirt, covered in blood. He lifted up the sticky shirt, lifted up the gauze underneath and took stock of Sherlock’s wound.”

"Shit, you tore your stitches."

John pulled Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders, and lifted Sherlock out of the chair. He knew that there was someone else on the other side of the door; he had been able to sense them.

"Hello!” he called, tapping his knuckles against the two way glass of the window.

“I need you to take him to the hospital please!"

"John?" Sherlock said, weakly into where his mouth was resting by John’s ear.

"Try not to talk."

"I need to tell you something.”

“Whatever it is isn’t important.”

“But it is. You are not the first one I’ve  _ tricked _ ; no, but you are-“

“Don’t; please, don’t.” John pleaded as he continued to knock on the window.

"You're the first one I've ever fallen in love with." Sherlock said, and his forehead fell down against John’s shoulder.

John bit his bottom lip to keep the flood of emotions rushing through him from overflowing.

“Hello!” he called again, this time banging against the door.

The door opened then, and the same man who brought John into the room was standing there; three piece suit and umbrella at his side.

"I always told you that sentiment would kill you, Sherlock." He said, motioning to the man guarding the door to take Sherlock from John.

“He’s lost a lot of blood.” John said.

“We’ll take care of it Dr. Watson. And someone will be here shortly to escort you home or to wherever you wish to go.”

“Without Mary?” John asked.

“Yes.” The man answered.

The man turned around, and walked away from John, not even bothering to close the door. The other man in fatigues turned to follow; Sherlock in his arms. John wasn’t sure if he heard what he thought he heard, but as the three of them rounded the corner, the faintest baritone of a whisper brushed against his ear:

_ “Goodbye, John.” _


	8. Chapter Seven

John was wrecked for months. How did someone cope with the knowledge that the last years of their life had been a complete lie, that the woman they loved, married, made a life with was a paid killer? 

John did so by sleeping on his sister’s sofa, and selling his and Mary’s home and everything in it; just as it was left that night. He did so with therapy; first the cold, liquid kind that came in a short glass and eventually the real kind. He tried to understand why he didn’t see through her facade, why he still loved her, and missed her knowing all the things she’d done. He talked about things back in his childhood, things from the war. John shared everything, two times a week, except for one.

Sherlock.

He kept Sherlock to himself, a constant, aching thought in his head that broke free when the lights were off and he was alone. He twisted underneath his sheets with both a pain and a longing desire. He didn’t understand, he  _ couldn’t  _ understand how their weeks together were a lie when it felt so real; more real than his marriage, than anyone he ever loved before. And how, yet again, he had fallen in love with someone who took other people’s lives.

They’d certainly taken his. 

John wondered, of course if they were even alive anymore. The man who seemed to run everything that night assured him they wouldn’t kill Mary, but they never said they wouldn’t hurt her, and there was always the possibility someone else wanted her dead, and if Sherlock ultimately survived his wound there was probably another one that waited for him somewhere else. 

In time, he thought a little less of them both. He got a new job, a new flat; new friends. He went on a handful of dates, took a holiday to Scotland to visit family, and found a way to move on from the pains of his past. 

**~X~**

When John started at his new clinic there was an empty shop on the other side of the street with blue, flaking trim and a blue awning that hung over a large window. One day he noticed painters replacing both with a deep, dark black and painting the word ‘books’ in gold, fanciful lettering on the window. For days, he watched movers bring in boxes and crates, and tried to ignore the sting that poked at his heart until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He lived on that side of the street, but took the long way home anyway just to avoid the shop and the smell and the memories he thought he was forgetting. 

But the shop still called him, and one day he went inside. 

A bell high on the door rang when he opened it and a small girl with a long, brown ponytail looked up from her perch at an old, chestnut desk.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Are you looking for anything special today?”

“Uh; old books? Do you have any of those?”

“Our rare and vintage collection is in the back,” she told him with a syrupy sweet smile. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re interested in. The owner does all negotiations on those.” 

“Thank you.”

John crossed to the back of the shop and pushed back heavy, velvet curtains. He was struck with the smell of musty, old pages and stale ink. He browsed the shelves full of cracking, beautiful spines. He wasn’t  _ looking  _ for it, but there was an anxious hope in his chest that he would find it, and he could hold it just one more time.

He was about to give up and forget the whole thing when he saw it sitting high on a shelf in the very back. 

“Excuse me?” John popped back to the front, “How much for that Whitman; second edition?” he asked the girl.

“That one’s not for sale,” a low, smooth voice said behind him, and a shiver ran down John’s spine.

John knew that voice. It haunted his dreams. 

His heart beat wildly against his rib cage, his mouth went dry, his ears started to ring as the baritone sound kept echoing through them. 

Sherlock.

“You’re not dead,” he said when he turned around. 

Sherlock laughed, and God, was it beautiful to watch the corners of his mouth turn up, and his eyes squint and wrinkle in the corner.

“Am I supposed to be?”

“No. God, no. I just - I didn’t know.”

Sherlock took a step closer to him. His impossibly shiny shoes tapped loud against the hardwood underneath his feet. 

He looked good. So  _ very  _ good. His curls were still wild but shorn closer to his head, his shirt was still silken and expensive, and his jacket and trousers still bespoke. 

And then a terrible thought broke through all his appreciation. 

“Are you working right now?” He whispered.

“I am at work, yes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Sherlock said.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“So, this is - this is  _ you _ ?”

Sherlock held out his hand, “Sherlock Holmes, shop owner, book dealer.”

John hesitated before he reached out to shake his hand, “Dr. John Watson. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Coffee?” Sherlock asked. “There’s a place around the corner.”

“I know. I work across the street. But I think you already knew that.”

“I did.”

“So, you’ve been spying on me, then?”

“It was all completely innocent this time. I swear it.”

“I believe you. But your shop has been here for seven months; why didn’t you just come and see me?”

“I never got sick.”

John laughed, “fair enough. Let’s get that coffee.”

He waited for Sherlock to get his coat  _ \- that coat -  _ from the back of the shop and the bell rang again as they left the shop.

The sun started to set while they walked down the sidewalk, close but not too close. 

“Do you know?” John started, because if he didn’t ask he would hate himself, “Mary- is she?”

“She’s alive. She’s out of the game too.”

“Really?”

“I told you, I won’t lie to you again. She lives in Italy with her husband and twin boys.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s good. Good for her.”

John didn’t know why it bothered him. It wasn’t as if he expected her to come back to him, or that he even wanted her to anymore, but knowing how it all ended between them, he was surprised to hear she moved on so easily into a new life without him as if maybe theirs never meant anything real at all to her. 

He opened the door to the coffee shop and they ordered their drinks before they sat at a small table in the back. 

It was late in September so the warmth of the mug felt good against John’s fingers and he pressed them harder into the porcelain. 

“John, I need to apologise to you,” Sherlock said as he looked down into the steam of his tea.

“You don’t have to. You were just doing your job, right? and I was just collateral damage.”

“But you shouldn’t have been. I’m sorry that it was  _ you.  _ I’m sorry that Mary is who she was; I’m sorry I am who I am.”

John stared at the sadness on his face; the regret, the pain. He was too beautiful to look this pathetic. 

“It’s fine,” John reached across the table and set his hand over Sherlock’s, “let’s just start over.” 

  
  


**~X~**

Their shadows danced against the dim light from the street lamps outside and their cries echoed against the otherwise silence of the bedroom in the back of Baker Street.

Sherlock slammed John against the door when they poured out of a taxi after their drinks had gone cold and conversation wasn’t enough to satiate themselves. He crashed their lips together, and tugged up at the hem of John’s jumper. 

John sighed into his mouth and pulled him in closer by the soft leather of his belt. Sherlock lifted the jumper over John’s head and tasted skin he never forgot the taste of from neck to navel. 

He fought to get his own jacket off his long arms while John tugged at the buttons of his shirt, and stood silent as they wondered and worried at the scars across the others' bodies.

Sherlock took John’s hand through the boxes and chaos of the sitting room through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. He left his trousers on the floor at the door and sat on the edge of the bed. 

John slid in the space between his knees. He cupped his face in his hand and bent down to kiss him. 

“I meant it,” Sherlock said. “That night; it wasn’t the pain or the painkillers. I meant what I said to you. I still mean it now.”

“I know,” John said, “now turn over.”

The unspoken words of the three year old confession hung heavy in the air as Sherlock turned on his knees. John ran his palm along the nape of Sherlock’s neck and down his spine to his tailbone. Sherlock shivered and he whined at the tease of John’s fingers at his hole, and a memory of their first time flooded out of his Mind Palace when John started to kiss and lick there.

He moaned into the crook of his elbow and pushed back against John’s hot, magnificent mouth. He opened the drawer beside him and took out a condom and the lube; tossed them in John’s general direction.

John laughed when he felt them roll over his fingers.

He wiped away the saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand before he ripped open the condom and put it on, ran some lube over both of them.

“Do you still like it hard?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded.

John lifted his arse higher in the air before he pushed inside. He didn’t go too fast, but he snapped his hips against Sherlock as hard as he could manage, and Sherlock cried out with each powerful thrust. 

He gripped at the sheets as John picked up his pace and bent him impossibly higher. 

“You are amazing,” John said to him, “and I don’t care - I don’t care what you did or who the fuck you were before me. I love you, Sherlock..”

Sherlock groaned from deep inside. His legs quivered underneath him, his hair stuck to his forehead. One hand gave out and he rushed to grab the headboard before he fell over completely. 

“ _ God damnit - fuck!”  _ He yelled. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say, but John was so relentless, Sherlock’s brain couldn’t even comprehend what he just said. 

The only thing Sherlock knew in that moment was the feel of John inside him, around him. He knew the smell of John’s soap as it sweat from the tip of his nose. He knew the sound his hair made as it hit the pillow, the sound of his fingernails scraping at the cotton of the sheets. 

He knew John’s fingers would leave bruises against his waist and in the depths of his shoulder.

Sherlock knew that John meant it. That he forgave him - not just for the sins he committed against him, but for every evil thing he did. 

Sherlock also knew he was about to cum. 

He shouted as he did. John slowed through it before his knees gave out and he fell against the mattress.

“You didn’t cum.” Sherlock said.

“No.”

“Well, that won’t do.”

Sherlock found a little strength and laid nose to nose with John. He brushed his hair away from his flushed face, and kissed him. He pulled off the condom and tossed it somewhere unseen before he pulled John as close as he could and threw one leg over him.

His fingers traced over all of John’s hot, empty skin while he slowly ground John’s cock in the hollow space between his pubis and his thigh. 

John’s eyes closed at the sensation. He evened out his breathing and started to move in time with Sherlock. 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock finally whispered against John’s neck.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck as if he could bring him any closer. He scrabbled to find skin to taste as he edged closer to an orgasm. 

They continued to rut, to kiss, to touch and whine and writhe until John came. 

Sherlock kissed his forehead before he slipped away to the bathroom. John watched him wet a flannel, wipe away his sticky mess before he rinsed it out and brought it back into the bedroom.

He knelt next to John and wiped him clean.

  
  


**~X~**

  
  


“O camerado close! O you and me at last, and us two only. O a word to clear one's path ahead endlessly!

O something ecstatic and undemonstrable! O music wild! O now I triumph—and you shall also; O hand in hand—O wholesome pleasure—O one more desirer and lover! O to haste firm holding—to haste, haste on with me”

The tea had gone cold four poems ago, but there would always be more tea. 

John laid underneath a heavy blanket, his head on Sherlock’s lap, as he watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down with each recited word. 

The curtains billowed with the late season wind. The street was quite below them. They were the only souls awake. 

There would never be enough of this. If they lived a hundred years together, it would never be enough time spent. 

“Are you tired,” Sherlock asked, twining his fingers with John’s.

“Just one more,” he answered.

“As many as you’d like.” 

  
  


  
  



End file.
